Perchance to Dream
by geminigrl11
Summary: Dean helps Sam sleep, with unexpected consequences.
1. To Sleep

**Title:** Perchance to Dream

Spoilers: "Nightmare" (very vague)

Summary: Dean helps Sam sleep, with unexpected consequences.

Author's notes: My first (only?) multi-chapter. Beta'd by the peerless Faye, without whom it couldn't have been written. As always, Faye, the ping is for you.

Disclaimer: The mistakes are the only things I can truly call my own.

**Perchance to Dream**

Part I: To Sleep 

The ache had been for building for days, finally reaching an intensity that made Sam want to hit something – hard and repeatedly. He leaned his forehead against the window. The pressure did little to ease the pain but the coolness cleared his head a little, and for that, he was grateful.

He wasn't grateful for the rain, though. It pelted the windshield of the Impala with a quick staccato rhythm. The metronomic pace of the wiper blades beat into his consciousness: back and forth, back and forth, reverberating deep within him until his head seemed to throb in tandem. He hated to add his voice to the growing din within the confined space, but he knew that another minute like this would surely drive him insane.

"Can you turn them off?"

Startled, Dean reached out to switch off the radio.

Sam sighed. Without opening his eyes, he carefully turned, letting his head roll against the seat back.

"I meant _them_." He gestured weakly to the windshield.

Dean gave him a sharp glance. "That bad?"

Dean heard the answer in Sam's silence and let out a sigh of his own. "We just passed a sign for Watertown. We'll be there in less than ten."

Sam merely nodded, still not opening his eyes. He started counting without realizing it - o_ne-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand - _like he had as a child when he wanted to make time go faster. He found himself unconsciously matching the tempo of the wiper blades Dean had mercifully halted, the rain having tapered off to a light drizzle. Frustrated, he squinted his eyes and turned the radio back on.

Dean spent the final minutes before they reached the motel debating with himself. Sam's normal dream and wake cycle was insomnia-inducing enough, but his steadily worsening headaches had created a whole new level of sleeplessness. As Sam's newfound ESP or visions or whatever the hell they were had started to take root, they'd exerted an ever-increasing physical toll.

In the beginning, Sam had risen to the new challenge without complaint, sacrificing normal sleep (_And there's that damned word again, _Dean thought_. Normal.) _in the hopes that whatever he saw in his nightmares might help them on their next hunt. It wasn't unusual for his dreams to wake him several times a night, and Sam became adept at functioning on fewer and fewer hours of true rest.

The headaches, though – they weren't as easy to work around. The first time Sam had had a vision while awake, the aftermath had been harsh. He'd been hit with a sudden, blinding migraine that had all but incapacitated him. Pain relievers had dulled the intensity a little, but it had still taken nearly two days for Sam to recover. Dean had felt helpless, facing an enemy for which he had no weapon or incantation. Sam, however, had taken the pain in stride. Which had made Dean feel even worse.

The visions and nightmares created two separate patterns. The first had been established when the visions had easily identifiable sources. They knew what they were up against and acted accordingly: find the evil, vanquish, exorcise or immolate as needed, let Sam lay low for a few days afterward to regain his strength, and move on. But when they didn't know – when Sam couldn't pinpoint the direction or location, when the identity of the victims or demons couldn't be easily established – that's when the headaches took over. Lasting, serious headaches that would let Sam stay upright and mobile but would not let him sleep, and barely let him keep food in. The headaches lasted until they could figure out the puzzle.

It was incentive – in all the wrong ways, but incentive nonetheless – to be ferocious researchers and relentless interrogators, all their energy focused on finding a path they could follow and a clear enemy to fight. Usually, it worked. But this time, Sam's dream remained vague and ephemeral, and they were no closer to finding a source than they had been when he had first envisioned it, nearly a week before. In that time, the pressure in Sam's head had shown no signs of abating. Knowing that his brother had now spent nearly four days at the mercy of his pain with absolutely no sleep had made Dean genuinely concerned for his brother's health – and sanity. He had suggested sleeping pills, but Sam had refused, believing they would stifle his ability to dream. And without a more focused vision, they would still be in the dark.

Dean had stopped asking about the pills, but he hadn't stopped thinking about them. He had a prescription in his bag – one that had actually been his father's. He had come to the decision that tonight was the night. Vision or no vision, the lack of sleep was killing Sam, one painful inch at a time. At the very least, he was in no condition to face whatever monster might be waiting up the road for them. It was time to act.

The Impala slowed and turned. They bounced over a few shallow potholes before Dean brought them to a stop.

"I'll get the room. You need anything?"

At Sam's negative, Dean was out the door.

Minutes later, they were inside another generic motel room. Sam hunched in a chair at the small table, head propped on the heel of his hand.

He could feel the pain stretching beneath his skull, pushing for escape and scraping sharp nails over fragile nerve endings. He had a brief, twisted fantasy where he took the curved knife his father had given him for his thirteenth birthday and cut his own head open, letting the pressure go, once and for all. If he'd believed for a minute that it could work, it might have been more than a fantasy.

He heard Dean throw their bags on the floor and the subtle ping of worn springs as he sat on one of the beds. "This is no good, Sam. You've got to get some sleep."

Sam didn't know how to respond. It wasn't like he hadn't been trying. _"You cry and cry and try to sleep. But sleep won't come, no matter what you do . . ."_ The words of the country heartbreak song took on a more ominous meaning as they echoed through his brain in minor chords.

"Could you get me the ibuprofen?"

There was a pause, and then he could hear Dean unzip one of the bags and shake a small plastic canister.

"Here." Dean handed him four white capsules and a bottle of water. "Take a shower and then you're going to lie down for a while."

Sam swallowed the pills and decided not to argue. Dean had that tone, the one Sam had learned better than to push against, and he didn't have the energy to challenge that lesson tonight. He made himself stand, waited for the brief vertigo to pass, and walked into the bathroom.

Dean released the breath he'd been holding when he heard the shower start. He already felt guilty about what he had done, but he still thought it was the right choice. And if it had the desired effect, he'd live with the guilt and Sam's certain (and justifiable) anger. _Means and ends_, he thought. _That's all this is._ It didn't make him feel better, but Dean had made a decision and he'd live with it. It was the only way he knew how to operate.

The hot water and steam didn't prove to be quite the miracle Sam had hoped they would be. His head hurt as much as it had in the car, but he was detached from it, almost as though his head was a separate entity from his body. The bathroom was foggy and he found it a little hard to focus in the thick air. He sat down heavily on the closed toilet seat and took a deep breath. His head fell back and he suddenly realized he was looking at the ceiling. He brought his head down fast and wave of dizziness rolled over him.

He took another deep breath and reached for his clothes. His hands felt foreign as they held the cotton of his shirt and sweats. He looked at them stupidly for a moment, wondering where they had come from. _Hands_, he tested, surprised to hear the word out loud. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and made himself go through the motions of pulling clothes on over uncooperative limbs.

He intended to stand, but found himself sinking slowly to the floor. His head felt weightless now – an untethered balloon. He let it float away.

Dean heard a thud as Sam fell against the bathroom door. He'd been waiting for some sort of a sign, and already had his hand on the doorknob.

"Sam? You ok in there?"

There was no response, and Dean used his shoulder to carefully slide the unyielding door open. Sam was still propped against it, his head lolled to the side.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean squeezed through the door with care before kneeling next to his brother. He grasped Sam's chin and gently turned it so he could see his eyes. The pupils were huge and unfocused. Sam blinked slowly and unevenly.

"Hey, Dean. Couldjahelmeup?"

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, I'll help you up." He reached a firm arm under Sam's shoulders and around his waist, hauling him to a standing position.

They stumbled more than walked to the bed, Sam's long legs tangling with each other and with Dean's. Dean managed not to drop him until he was sure he'd hit the mattress. Sam tried to sit up, but Dean pressed, a firm hand on his shoulder. "Lay down, Sam."

Sam mumbled something unintelligible and nodded, his head hitting the pillow before he stopped. His eyes closed and he was still.

Dean pulled the covers up, wrapping them around his sleeping brother in a way he hadn't done since they were kids. He laid a hand briefly on Sam's forehead, smoothing out the deep lines. _No dreams tonight_, he thought firmly, willing the words true.

He watched Sam a moment longer, satisfying himself that his brother was truly asleep. Then he set about laying out the guns, anticipating a solid hour of cleaning and reloading.

As he turned away, he missed Sam's sudden frown and his hands clenching hands where they lay near his pillow.


	2. And in That Dreaming, Wake

**Title:** Perchance to Dream (2/6)

**Author:** geminigrl11 

**Rating:** Gen

**Spoilers: ** "Nightmare" (very vague)

**Genre:** Angst

**Summary: ** Dean helps Sam sleep, with unexpected consequences.

**Author's notes: ** Thanks again to wonderful Faye, who made this so much more than it was.

**Disclaimer:** The mistakes are the only things I can truly call my own.

_**

* * *

**__**Perchance to Dream**_ _**Part II: And in That Dreaming, Wake**_

Sam came awake with a start, his breath catching in his throat. He looked down in confusion, unable to remember having gone to bed. The 60-watt lights gave off a strange glow, leaving most of the room in flickering shadow. Everything looked right: the matching green paisley bedspreads, the water- and who-knows-what-else-stained carpet, the motel standard non-paintings hanging in cheap frames on faded blue walls. But something felt off. He searched his mind, trying to figure out what had awakened him, but there was nothing.

Dean sat on the opposite bed, methodically cleaning and oiling their rather impressive collection of guns. He glanced over as Sam vaulted into a sitting position. "'Bout time you woke up, Francis."

Sam blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. "Dean? Is everything ok?"

Dean didn't look up, his attention still focused on the weapon in his hand. "That really depends on your definition, doesn't it?"

Sam stared at him in bewilderment. "What do you mean?"

Dean didn't answer right away. Instead, he held up a pistol - the Glock .357 - testing its sites and making sure the chamber was empty before he snapped the trigger once, twice, three times, a fourth.

Sam cocked his head, studying his brother uncertainly. Dean was fastidious with their weapons. He kept several large, soft chamois cloths to lay them on for cleaning and storing. He never chanced scratching them – or having gun oil soak into cheap sheets, creating the need for late-night washings or early-morning explanations. To see the guns piled loosely on the nubby bedspread rather than laid out on chamois on the floor, sized biggest to smallest, as always, was just – wrong.

"I _mean,_"Dean enunciated slowly, as though he were talking to a child, "it depends on what you consider to be ok."

Sam blinked again, still trying to figure out what the hell Dean was talking about. His brother didn't usually go for this Cheshire cat, "Who are you?" kind of conversation, and Sam had no idea what could have provoked it now. Maybe they'd been talking about something before he fell asleep? He tried to remember, but the harder he tried, the more elusive his memories became. He vaguely recalled being in the car and driving, endlessly driving, to a destination he couldn't place. And the persistent, inconsolable ache in his head that muted out everything else. He shook his head tentatively, and realized the pain was gone.

_That's what's wrong_, Sam thought trying to find some sense among his muddled thoughts. _No headache, but no vision, no dreams. No answers_. Sam was usually reluctant to share what was going on inside his head until he had at least started to figure it out for himself. But this time, it was what _wasn't_ going on that was unusual, and Sam didn't know what to make of it. "Dean, my headache's gone."

"Thanks for sharing." Dean sounded bored – possibly even annoyed that Sam had mentioned something so trivial. He picked up another handgun: this time, the .9 millimeter. He aimed it at one of the nondescript watercolors hanging on the wall. Again, he slid the chamber open to make sure there was nothing in it and then fired. One, two, three, four. The repetitiveness of his actions was starting to bother Sam, and he flinched in spite of himself. Dean never fired guns – even empty – indoors. Just in case. It was a safety measure their father had drilled into their heads from the moment he had first let them handle firearms.

"Why are you doing that?" Sam finally had to ask. He felt himself holding his breath as he watched Dean's unusual movements, almost afraid to hear the response.

Dean sighed exasperatedly, as though he couldn't believe Sam was asking a question with such an obvious answer. "Gotta make sure they don't jam at an inopportune time, now, don't we, Sammy? I wouldn't want to be stuck with a gun that wouldn't fire."

Something about the way he said it, the way he kept firing each gun four times . . . Sam's eyes widened, and he was suddenly back in Roosevelt Asylum, standing over his brother's prone form. _" . . . go ahead. Pull the trigger. Do it." _He shivered at the memory and wondered again just what was going on with Dean. Sam had never seen him like this before – even that night. He was so detached, so cold, almost . . . menacing.

"What's more important is that you haven't answered _my_ question. Let's stay focused, shall we, college boy? _Is_ everything ok? This life working for you? After all, you left once. Was it worth coming back? Living out of places like this again -" he gestured to the paint-peeled walls and worn carpet with the gun, "- no friends, no ties to anyone, nonexistent father and more bad guys after you now than before you left?"

Sam's jaw dropped open. His heart raced with a dizzying mix of shock and confusion and the beginnings of a healthy dose of fear. This wasn't Dean.

"Who are you?" Sam could barely force the words from his mouth, which had suddenly gone dry. He looked to the pile of guns, wondering whether or not he could reach one before this - whatever it was - turned on him. His mind turned to thoughts of possession and shapeshifters and how the hell he was going to get out of this without a weapon.

Dean laughed, a low chuckle. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Now, I realize we haven't been exactly _close_ these last few years, but you really should recognize your own brother."

Dean set the .9 millimeter on the bed and raised a shotgun, flipping it open to again reveal empty chambers. He tested the trigger just as he had with the others. Click. Click. Click. Click. The empty reports goaded Sam into action. He slowly started to back away, sliding across the rumpled sheets of his bed and easing his feet to the floor, one at a time. He was poised to run or fight, and expected the need for one or both to come instantly.

Dean merely looked at him, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly cocky way he'd perfected as a teen. "A little jumpy, there, aren't you, little brother?"

"Cristo." Sam all but hurled the word, and was utterly floored when Dean didn't flinch and his eyes didn't change.

Instead, he shook his head and laughed that low chuckle again, as though Sam were the most amusing thing in the world. "Now, really, Sammy, if someone's a demon here, do you really think it's me? Start using your head for a change." Dean tapped the barrel of the shotgun against his temple for emphasis. "That's just poor logic. Looks like someone needs to do a little more research."

Sam continued to back up without turning, hand fumbling for the door. He kept his eyes on his brother, but Dean didn't make a move toward him. He just moved on to the next gun, unfazed by Sam's growing panic.

"This isn't real." Sam's voice was just a whisper now, its uncertainty betrayed by a quiver he couldn't suppress. "You're not real."

Deanpulled another trigger– four quick snaps as the hammer closed.

"Whatever makes it easier for you to sleep at night, bro."

_Sleep. Sleep. I'm still sleeping. This is a dream. It's just a dream._ The words became almost a prayer as Sam struggled for control. Finally, his hand grasped the door handle. He turned it carefully, still wary of the form on the bed. He pulled the door open, still not looking behind him, and stepped back into the darkness.

* * *

Sam moaned softly in his sleep. Dean watched him for a moment, but Sam didn't move and the sound wasn't repeated. Hopefully, that was a good sign.

Dean wasn't used to seeing his brother rest so quietly, and he silently thanked his father for leaving the pills behind. They certainly seemed to be working a miracle this night, and Dean was grateful almost as much for himself as for his brother. It had been hard for him to sleep, knowing Sam couldn't, and he was fighting a healthy dose of fatigue himself. They'd both needed to recharge. This was the perfect opportunity for Dean to get a good night's rest, knowing his brother was safe, at least for the time being.

Dean stretched, raising tired muscles over his head with a satisfied groan. The guns were cleaned, the weapons sharpened, and he was ready for bed. He changed clothes and stood over Sam for another minute, drawing comfort from watching his brother's slow and steady breaths. He pulled the bedspread up where it had slid off Sam's shoulder, and then switched off the light. As he lay down, he slid his hand under the pillow, reaching for the familiar coldness of the steel blade he kept there. His fingers wrapped around it and he was asleep.


	3. Out of the Frying Pan

**Title:** Perchance to Dream (3/6)

**Spoilers:** "Nightmare" (very vague)

**Summary:** Dean helps Sam sleep, with unexpected consequences.

**Author's notes:** Once again, hats off to Faye for the unparalleled beta and enthusiasm! Also, big thanks for all of the encouraging reviews! Glad you all are enjoying the story. (But you might have to wait a little for Part IV).

**Disclaimer:** The mistakes are the only things I can truly call my own.

_

* * *

**Perchance to Dream**_

_**Part III: Out of the Frying Pan**_

* * *

Darkness gave way to light – bright light. Sam blinked hard, trying to help his eyes adjust. The motel room was gone, and he sitting in a hard plastic chair. He rubbed a hand roughly over his face, trying to wipe away the memory of his brother and the damned empty guns. His hand dropped and he looked around, getting his bearings. What he saw next took his breath away.

The last thing Sam expected when he fled from the motel room was Jessica. And even if he had expected her, he could not have foreseen her being in a cap and gown, sitting next to him with a long line of black-robed strangers, in seats above the 50-yard line in Stanford Stadium. She was looking straight ahead at a stage in the middle of the football field.

For a moment, all he could do was stare. He hadn't seen her like this since before – before . . . He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the vision of the last time he had seen Jess, pinned to the ceiling of the bedroom they had shared, bleeding and burning and begging him for a reason why, why her life was ending in a slash of pain and terror.

When he opened his eyes, she was still there. Still sitting, still looking as though this were an everyday occurrence. Sitting. Breathing. He visually traced the line of her neck, the smooth curve of her jaw, the delicate shell of her ear. She wore tiny, gold hoop earrings – his gift to her for their last Christmas together. Her hair lay in silken waves, rustling over the starkness of the black acetate with the faint breeze that drifted through the stadium.

He could _feel_ her . . . lovely, human warmth radiating from her body and bridging the fragile distance between them.

He swallowed, willing this apparition to stay. He couldn't stop, didn't even notice the sudden flow of tears that clogged his throat and spilled down his cheeks.

"Jess?" He breathed her name, his voice a mix of hope and agonized incredulity. He had seen her so many times in his dreams, but not like this. Never like this. "What are you doing here?"

Jess didn't look at him, her gaze still fixed on the scene unfolding on the grass below. "Shh, Sam! This is the important part."

He couldn't tear his eyes away from her. She looked so different, and yet exactly the same. Jess here, beside him. Warm. _Alive._ He could even smell her shampoo and the perfume she always wore – a little fingerprint, brushed along the base of her throat. He reached out to touch her, but drew back, suddenly afraid. He couldn't bear the thought that he was wrong, that this wasn't real, that he would wake up (_wake up)_ with hands full of nothing and ash on his tongue.

"Jess." It was only one word – just a name – but it held a lifetime's worth of yearning, of need. With it, he begged her to look at him, to acknowledge him, to _be_ with him in a way she hadn't been for so long.

"Sam . . ." Her voice was mildly annoyed, and suddenly, he could hear her warning him the way she used to when he tried to distract her during their marathon study sessions. It was the voice that said, _I'm concentrating; don't start, _but in reality the books would be forgotten moments later. In that voice, Sam could hear her laugh as they wrestled over her favorite highlighter. He could taste the sweetness of the ice cream they would share, eating off the same spoon and without the need for a bowl. He could feel the soft slide of her lips over his as they kissed languorously over the backs of the spindle-legged chairs at the table in their kitchen. It was a voice filled with humor, with caring, with promise.

He had missed that voice. God, how he had missed it.

"Jess, please." Why wouldn't she look at him? What could possibly be more important than this moment, more important than the two of them, together – no longer fragments but whole?

He heard a huff of breath, a small, exasperated sigh as she finally turned toward him. "Sam, you know they're going to be testing us on this later. Now, please. Pay attention!"

He barely got a glimpse of her face before she turned back to the field in full concentration. Distressed, perplexed, he finally looked, too.

On the stage below, deans and professors in brightly colored, full-sleeved robes stood in even lines, divided around a central podium. Someone was speaking, the words echoing vacantly through static-filled amplifiers and rolling over the stadium rows in subtle waves.

Sam couldn't understand the words; they were gibberish to him. But Jess listened with rapt attention, nodding in key places. Sam spared a glance at the sea of faces around him and saw identical expressions of concentration, even fervor. The stadium began to fill with the sound of thousands of voices, chanting in unison – Jess's among them.

"Jess, what is this?" He had to force the words out, certain now that where they were wasn't real, that Jess wasn't real. Her actions, the scene – none of it fit. They had never been here, and Jess had certainly never ignored him in this way or made him feel like his presence was insignificant.

Realizing the truth, that this was just another dream, was somehow more devastating than when he relived their last moments together. He hadn't seen her anywhere but above him, sliced and smoldering, since that day. He had never thought to see her any way but that again. Losing that slender thread of hope, the hope that she was really with him again, was like losing her a second time. Like when he had lost his mother again, back in Lawrence.

His breath hitched as he fought back a sob.

Jess broke off the chant and rolled her eyes. "Sam, you _know_ what this is. It's been waiting for you your whole life. You are the destruction."

And as she said these words, the gibberish Sam had heard became recognizable. "Ego iacio vos sicco, everto, in nomen de Abbas, Filius, quod Spiritu Sanctu. Amen."

The blood drained from Sam's face and he felt a shift in the air as the entire crowd turned to face him. They stared at him, mouths moving in sync, faces uniform and featureless as they repeated the words of the exorcism rite over and over.

When Jess turned to him this time, her eyes were black and soulless. "You are the destruction, Sam."

He felt a horror he had never known, not in 23 years of facing evil, as Jess made the sign of the cross in the emptiness between them and picked up the chant. "Ego iacio vos sicco, everto, in nomen de Abbas, Filius, quod Spiritu Sanctu. Amen."

The words grew louder and Sam recoiled in his seat, unable to believe what was happening.

"Jess, no! This is -" But his mind couldn't create a coherent thought.

Jess reached for something at her feet and when she sat up, she held a bottle in her hand. As she twisted the cap, Sam could see the gold cross emblazoned on the plastic. _Holy water,_ he realized distantly. Before he had time to process why she had it, she was pouring it over him. As drops caught the bare skin of his arms and face, he felt it penetrate like acid.

He cried out as it burned him, black sores erupting where the blessed water made contact. The scent of sulfur was filling his nose and mouth and he couldn't breathe, dear God, he couldn't _breathe_.

_Wake up! Please, let me wake up! _He was crying again, but this time in abject terror. Jess continued to empty the bottle over him, and the intensity of the chanting built.

"Ego iacio vos sicco, everto, in nomen de Abbas, Filius, quod Spiritu Sanctu. Amen."

_Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP! _But his body wouldn't respond, and no one seemed to hear him. The Latin words and brimstone swept over him, closing in, pulling him under until he only knew blackness.

_("I cast you out, demon, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen." I used a web translation site, so apologies if it's not absolutely correct.)_


	4. Into the Fire

**Title:** Perchance to Dream (4/6)

**Spoilers:** "Nightmare" (very vague), plus the show up 'til now

**Summary:** Dean helps Sam sleep, with unexpected consequences.

**Author's notes:** As always, with much gratitude to Faye, beta-extraordinaire! Also, big thanks for all of the encouraging reviews! Glad you all are enjoying the story!

**Disclaimer:** The mistakes are the only things I can truly call my own.

_**

* * *

Perchance to Dream**_

_**Part IV: Into the Fire**_

Dean stretched and rolled to his side, glancing at the clock as he sought his brother's features through the half-light. Sam was still, his head burrowed into the pillow. He must have shifted during the night – he now lay crossways over the bed – but there were no other signs of movement.

Dean did the math and figured Sam had been asleep for nearly seven hours – a record unmatched since they'd been back on the road together. He breathed a sigh of relief. He'd had his doubts about the sleeping pills, and had woken up several times during the night to check that Sam was okay. But Sam had been peaceful in his sleep, and the steady, even cadence of his breathing had gradually eased Dean's mind.

It was earlier than he would have liked, but Dean thought he would only have two or three hours at best before Sam awoke, and he'd planned to spend the time doing laundry. He'd found a 24-hour place in the yellow pages the night before that was close to the motel. With any luck, they'd be on the road by lunchtime with all their major tasks for the day complete.

He gathered their dirty clothes and shoved them into an empty duffel, then grabbed his wallet and room key and pulled his knife out from under the pillow to put back into the sheath hidden inside his jacket. He watched Sam for another moment, considering, and then laid the .9 millimeter on the nightstand nearest Sam's bed. Just in case. He walked out the door, flipping the service sign to "Do Not Disturb," and closed it quietly. The day was clear and cool, and he actually planned to enjoy the short walk to the laundromat.

* * *

Drip. 

_No._

Drip.

_No, please . . ._

Drip.

_Please, no more . . ._

Sam kept his eyes shut, knowing this time what he would see if he opened them. _Jess. Oh, God, Jess . . ._

The familiar nightmare was so much worse after having seen Jess whole. After thinking, even fleetingly, that he was with her again. _After she had damned him for the demon he was and cast him back to hell . . ._

He barely stifled a sob.

His hands clenched against thehardness of the bed below him as the stickiness of the blood permeated his skin. He knew there was no escape, but he still couldn't bear to look. He'd been tortured by this vision too many times and he didn't have the strength to face it again. Jess would plead for him, face fixed in shades of muted horror. Her blood would drown him and the flames would smother them both, but he would not open his eyes. Not this time.

"Sam, I know you're awake. Open your eyes. It's time to get up."

Despite his resolve, Sam's eyes flew open at the sound of his father's voice. And he knew he was, indeed, in hell.

It was not Jessica's body pinned above him this time, but his mother's. And unlike the last time he had seen her – ablaze but intact in Lawrence – he was looking back in time at the nightmare that had started it all. She was slashed across her abdomen, just as Jess had been, and the crimson dots that marred Sam's brow were formed from her blood. His mother's blood.

"_Mom._" He could barely force the word out.

"Why, Sam? Why?"

With those three words, she damned him, too. His soul took them as blows, feeling the utter responsibility, the blame, the absolute guilt that they imparted.

"I – I – " He swallowed, his throat raw with tears. He shook his head feebly, trying to deny what was happening.

"Your mother asked you a question, Samuel, and I had better hear an answer."

Sam's eyes were drawn at once to his father, who sat at the end of his bed, patiently sharpening a curved knife – Sam's curved knife. The blade caught the light, and John's eyes glinted dangerously as he stared at his son. His hand never slowed as he pulled the steel against the whetstone, long scrapes echoing in the silence of the room. His tone was the one that brooked no argument, the tone Sam remembered from too many instances in his childhood. Moments when Sam had stood in impotent fury, his demands for answers, for understanding, for solace, ignored or crushed.

Sam had spent a significant amount of his life angry with his father – his choices and his methods. Now, though, Sam felt small and afraid and powerless and he had never wanted anything more than he wanted his father to reach out and help him, to end this nightmare once and for all.

"Dad, _please . . ._"

John brought the knife up and pointed it at him. "You heard me, Sam. I won't tolerate disrespect. Answer your mother."

Sam pressed his head back into the unforgiving mattress, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

"Why, Sam?"

I don't know! I don't know, Mom. I –

"I'm sorry." Sam's words were barely a whisper, and once he'd started saying them, he couldn't stop. "ImsorryImsorryImsorryImsorry . . ."

He couldn't look at her, couldn't look away. Her beautiful face was twisted in agony and revulsion. _Revulsion for me. My fault. I killed . . ._ He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to keep those thoughts at bay, but it was not to be.

"I told you to open your eyes."

John was above him now, the knife raised in his hand.

"This is what you've done, Sam. It's time you faced up to it."

John leaned in close and Sam tried to shrink away from him, but there was nowhere to go. John's voice was soft now, with a lilt Sam hardly recognized. A half-memory flickered in the back of his mind, a faded picture a father on the couch with two small sons snuggled against him, reading bedtime stories. That gentleness had not lasted past Sam's toddler years, and to hear it now, in this place, under these circumstances, carved wounds in Sam's soul.

"You're the one, Sammy. You're what I've been hunting all this time. You know that, don't you?"

Denials sprang to Sam's lips and died as John continued.

"You are the destruction."

John shook his head with a small smile, as though he couldn't quite believe his discovery.

"It was right here in front of me, all along. I could have ended this years ago."

He shifted, and over his shoulder, Sam saw the first flames fan to life around his mother.

"All this time, your mother's killer, right here with me. We could've saved so much time. Dean could have had a normal life. I can't believe I never put it together."

Sam's mouth was working, opening and closing, but he couldn't form words. _This is not happening. This is not happening. This IS NOT – _

"But we can end it tonight, can't we, son?"

Licks of fire spiraled out across the ceiling, enveloping his mother's body.

"Why, Sam? Why?"

The words spun around him, tugging at him, still demanding an answer.

"We'll end the destruction, once and for all."

His father raised the knife above him, and even before it began its descent, Sam could feel it slicing into him, ripping through skin and sinew, tearing through his body like the talon of a beast.

Flames erupted everywhere now – ceiling, walls, floor, bed. His mother was no longer visible, his father engulfed in fire. And as his own flesh started to blister and sizzle, Sam finally started screaming.


	5. Full Circle

**Title:** Perchance to Dream (5/6)

**Spoilers:** "Nightmare" (very vague), plus the show up 'til now

**Summary:** Dean helps Sam sleep, with unexpected consequences.

**Author's notes:** With ever-increasing gratitude to Faye, who has been the engine behind this train. Heartfelt and continued thanks for all of the kind reviews! Glad you all arestill reading!

**Disclaimer:** The mistakes are the only things I can truly call my own.

_**

* * *

Perchance to Dream ******__Part V: Into the Fire_

Sam surfaced slowly, agonizingly, pulling his way toward consciousness as though he were moving through quicksand. His eyes wouldn't cooperate – first one would open, and then the other, but they wouldn't rise in tandem or show more than slits of light. His body wasn't cooperating either. His head still felt detached, his arms and legs pinpricked and heavy. He groaned as he tried to push himself up, all of his energy going into simply not sinking back to the welcoming warmth of the bed. He had to get up, had to move, had to not be sleeping anymore. That was paramount.

His energy gave out halfway up, and his head dropped back to the pillow, arms still flexed as they tried to hold him. He swallowed, then swallowed again, trying to rid his mouth of its dry, cotton-filled feeling. It didn't quite work . . . His whole body didn't quite work, but he wasn't giving up yet.

Time passed – maybe a few minutes, maybe quite a bit longer – and Sam felt some of the tingle, the buzzing just below the surface of his skin, fade.

Again, he attempted to sit up. Somehow, he managed to rise enough to not only keep his head up but maneuver his legs so that they were in front of him, his back to the room. The bed was still spinning in slow arcs that made him drag his hands up to his head to try to hold it in place. He brought his knees up and under his chin to rest his head there. He didn't have the strength to hold it up without support.

_At least I'm finally awake,_ he thought, and a sob suddenly rose from his chest. He bit his lip hard to keep from letting it out, and tried equally as hard to block out the memory of the nightmares he'd had. They were still so vivid. He still see them, could almost reach out and touch –

He didn't want to remember. The dreams had never been that bad before. Any one of them, on their own, would have been enough to haunt his waking moments, but altogether . . . _Dean, Jess, Dad, Mom . . . oh, God. _The litany of names kept repeating itself over and over in his head, each one more painful than the last.

It didn't take much for him to connect the common threads between them. All of them, the four people he had ever loved, the only ones who had ever loved him back, saw him as a demon. _You are the destruction._ _You are the destruction. You are the – _

"No!" Sam covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the damning words. He wouldn't believe it, couldn't believe it. Because if he was, if he truly was what they said, if he was responsible for the deaths and the pain and the devastation of his family . . .

"Finally starting to figure it out, there, eh, Sammy?"

Dean's voice was whip-sharp, cutting through Sam's lingering haze. There was no confusion this time: Sam knew that this wasn't his brother.

Sam's still-recovering body couldn't keep up with his brain, though, and he only managed to twist on the bed rather than jumping up the way his nerves were commanding.

"You – you –" Obviously, his mouth wasn't keeping up either, and it took him several attempts to sputter, "You can't be here. I'm awake. You're not here anymore."

Dean barked a laugh. "You know, kid, I really gave you far more credit than you deserved. Big, bad college boy with his Stanford education and his law school aspirations and he still _doesn't get it_."

The .9 millimeter was back in Dean's hand and he was tapping it against his forehead again, punctuating his last three words.

Sam finally lifted himself off the bed. His whole body tensed, trying to prepare for what was coming next.

But there was no way to prepare for it.

"What do you think we've all been trying to tell you, bro?" Dean advanced in slow, patient steps, as though he was trying not to spook his brother. His measured approach had the opposite effect.

"I don't know." Sam retreated equally slowly, his eyes frantically scanning the room and marking exit paths. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"You are the destruction, Sammy. It's been you since the day you were born. We all knew it. Maybe we didn't want to believe it, but there's really no denying it, is there?" Dean was just so damned conversational about it. He could have been talking about the weather or the Super Bowl or the versatility of table salt versus rock salt. _Rock salt packs a punch, but table salt is so much more portable, and by the way, you know you're it, right? The thing we've been hunting? Funny how life works out that way. _But instead, he was talking about Sam, about Sam being the force behind the evil the Winchesters had warred against with for 23 years.

It was Dean's tone that halted Sam in his tracks, even as Dean continued to move forward. If there had been even a hint of malevolence in Dean's voice, Sam would have moved. Would have gathered whatever wits he still had left and galvanized his tired body into action and _run._

But Dean went on, kept talking like it was the most natural, normal thing in the world to say these things, to mean them. "Think about it, Sammy. Mom, Jess, me – you killed all three of us."

Sam shook his head in mute denial, but Dean overrode his objections. "Come on, little brother. I mean, I'm still _here_, but we both know you pulled the trigger. Shoot to kill, right? Aim for the heart. Dad taught us well."

Dean brought the gun back to his temple, gently cocking and squeezing the trigger. "Mom. Jess. Me. Who should the fourth one be? Dad?"

Sam still said nothing and Dean raised his eyebrows. "Is that it, Sam? You want more blood on your hands? Round things out with the old man? I know you have your issues with him, but I've got to say, I'm surprised."

Dean shook his head, gently chiding. "I told you you were a selfish bastard. Guess I was more right than I knew, huh?"

"What are you talking about?" Sam felt like the words were wrenched from him. "I'm not going to kill Dad! I didn't kill anyone!"

"Sam, we've been over this. You know I'm telling the truth. You know it. Why do you think you keep dreaming about it? Night after night, the same dreams. Night after night, you kill us all. You know. You've _always_ known."

Dean was standing next to him now, and Sam couldn't even breathe. Any thoughts of this just being a dream, something he could wake up from, run from, hide from – all had disintegrated. Dean leaned in, his mouth inches from Sam's ear, and Sam knew what he was going to say even before he started speaking.

"_You. Are. The. Destruction."_ Dean's whisper was sympathetic. Almost.

All of Sam's defenses crumbled. He had nothing left.

"I am the destruction." Guilt. Agony. Acceptance.

Dean shifted, bringing his forehead to rest against Sam's. Sam's eyes slid shut. He was so tired. Empty. Worn through to his very bones.

"You know what you have to do, don't you?"

And Dean nodded with him.

"It's got to end, right? And there's only one way to end it."

"I know." Sam swallowed thickly. If he had thought about it, his calm in this moment would have surprised him. But there was no fight left in him. He almost felt . . . at peace. At last, there was a way to atone for his sins.

He felt Dean place the gun in his hand, felt him wrap his fingers around the grip. They nodded again, as one, and Dean backed away.


	6. By the Cold Light of Day

**A/N**: Here it is . . . the final chapter! Thanks to everyone who stuck it out. I hope you enjoy. Mad, mad props to Faye whose patient and encouraging beta made it all happen. You both rock my face off AND make me want 10,000 of your babies (with the epidural, of course).

**Disclaimer: **Still and always, not mine.

_**

* * *

**_

Perchance to Dream

Part VI: By the Cold Light of Day

Dean balanced the duffel of freshly laundered clothes against his hip while he fumbled for the key. He tried to be as quiet as possible, squeaky door notwithstanding, lest he wake Sam. But as he pushed it open, Dean saw him standing next to the bed. Sam looked like he had just risen, his hair sticking up awkwardly, clothes disheveled, posture slump-shouldered and loose.

Dean had spent the morning watching the laundry tumble around and wondering how Sam would react. Would Sam even realize what he'd done? If so, how would he handle it? Sam could go off like a firecracker or nurse a slow burn for days, depending on his perception of whatever wrong had been committed. Dean knew that, if their positions were reversed, he would be furious. Sam's emotions, however, weren't as easy to predict. Dean decided to hedge his bets and act as though nothing unusual had happened. Maybe Sam would let it blow over . . . _Yeah, right._

Dean forced a smile and joviality he didn't quite feel, hoping it would be enough for both of them. "'Bout time you woke up, Francis."

Any hopes Dean had of Sam reacting well were dashed when Sam flinched at the sound of his voice.

"Will you please just leave?" Sam was hoarse, his voice rougher than his usual just-woke-up timbre. He kept his back turned.

Dean felt a muscle twitch in his jaw and reminded himself that he'd expected this. Means and ends, he admonished. What's done is done and we're just going to have to deal with it. He suppressed a momentary twinge of guilt and plowed ahead.

"Look, I get that you're pissed, but you have to understand - "

"I do understand." If anything, Sam sounded even more raw. "I told you I'd do it. I get it. What more do you want from me?"

Sam finally turned and Dean's heart plummeted. Sam was a wreck. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed and even more bruised than they had been the night before. He was folded in on himself as though prepared for a blow. _This can't be good . . ._

"Sam, listen, I know you're-"

"Can you just leave? Please?" Sam was begging now. "I can't . . ." He drew a ragged breath. "Just – no more. I'll do it. I know."

And that's when Dean saw the gun.

He involuntarily took a step back, dropping the duffel at his feet and bringing his hands up in a placating gesture. He didn't know what Sam was planning, but it wouldn't be the first time his brother had pointed a loaded gun at him, and Dean wasn't about to take any chances.

"Sam, what are you doing?" He tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible, to convey a sense of calm he wasn't even close to feeling.

Sam shook his head and put a hand to his forehead. He pressed it over his eyes and drew a labored breath.

"I told you I'd do it. _Please_, just leave me alone. _Please_."

Dean's eyes went wide as Sam's cryptic words began to make a twisted sort of sense. Sam was planning on using the gun on _himself._ Dean could feel his heart begin to race._ Damn it, what happened?_

Dean kept his hands up, trying not to spook his brother. "Sammy, I don't know what you're thinking, but there is no way I'm going to leave you alone. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on."

Sam shook his head more forcefully, and when he dropped his hand, his eyes were wild. "Why are you doing this? You don't have to show me anymore. I know. _I know_. Just let me – God, just let me - "

Sam turned away again and started to raise the pistol to his head.

"Sam!"

Dean made a move toward him and Sam whirled. His foot caught in the blankets hanging off the side of the bed and he went down hard, taking all of his weight on his arm. Dean heard his soft cry of pain, but Sam seemed to recover almost instantly. He was on his feet and pointing the gun at Dean.

"Stay away."

Dean stopped where he was and raised his hands again. "I will. I'll stay right here. Just talk to me, Sam. Tell me why you're doing this." Dean had never begged for anything in his life, but he was pleading now, pleading for a way to keep his brother from doing the unthinkable.

"You know why." Sam breathed a small, brittle gasp of air. "You told me."

"_What_ did I tell you?"

Sam closed his eyes. He didn't want to say it again. _Why? Why won't he just let me end this? Why does he keep making me . . ._

"I am the destruction."

It was whispered so quietly that Dean almost didn't hear, and once it registered, he wished he hadn't. "Sam, no. I don't know where you're getting this, but you are not . . . I would never . . ."

"But I am! I see it! I should have seen it . . . All this time. There's so much that didn't have to happen. It didn't have to happen, Dean!"

Sam's anguish cut Dean to the quick.

"So much blood . . . on my hands . . ." Sam brought his hands in front of him, staring at them in horror.

Dean saw an opening and took advantage. He was on Sam in seconds, instinct allowing him to seek out Sam's weaknesses and exploit them. With one hand, he grabbed Sam's injured arm and wrenched it, driving Sam to his knees. With the other, he seized Sam's wrist, just below the butt of the gun, forcing Sam's arm up against the bed. He slid Sam's finger away from the trigger and slammed his hand against the mattress until the gun fell free.

Sam fought like a wild thing, but the pain from his arm and the lingering influence of the drugs made him a far less formidable opponent. Dean forced an elbow under Sam's chin, turning his head and body so that Dean could wrap his arms around him. He kept firm hands on his brother's wrists and pulled Sam against him, using his arms and legs to lock Sam in. Sam twisted, trying to pull away, but there was no give. Dean felt Sam sag against him, the fight over as suddenly as it had begun. They were both shaking, breathing hard. Dean leaned his chin against his brother's head, overcome by images of what had almost happened.

"What do you want from me?" Sam's voice was so small, a mix of confusion and despair.

Dean felt tears spring to his eyes and he raised his head to the ceiling, blinking them back. "Sammy." He swallowed, struggling to compose himself. "I don't want anything. I just want to know what you're thinking. What is going on in that freaky head of yours?" He was going for light, but the words sounded stretched and anxious, even to his own ears.

"You said - "

"No, Sam. Whatever you heard, whoever said it, it wasn't me. You have to know that, man. It wasn't me."

Sam was silent and Dean bit his lip, trying to be patient. _We have all the time in the world, little brother_. And if the irony of that sentiment – knowing Sam's time had almost come to an abrupt end seconds before – was enough to make the tears sting again, Dean thought it was a small price to pay.

"It was a dream." Almost a question, and for the first time, Sam sounded hopeful. Desperately hopeful.

Dean nodded, his head still touching his brother's.

Sam seemed to sag a little more, all of his strength gone. Dean shifted to take the extra weight.

"I couldn't wake up, Dean. I couldn't wake up."

Dean felt Sam shudder as the words crashed around them.

_I did this. Oh, God. I did this. _For the first time, Dean felt the true impact of the decision he'd made. He had allowed – _caused_ – this to happen to Sam. Because of him, because of his belief that he always knew what was best for his brother _(even when Sam said no)_, he had almost lost him.

_I almost lost you. _He pulled Sam closer, no longer restraining but attempting to comfort. _Sammy, I'm so sorry._

"Tell me." He knew Sam needed to say the words and that he, Dean, needed – he needed to hear. Everything. To embrace the guilt for what he'd done. He had to know.

Sam still didn't respond, and Dean dropped his mouth next to Sam's ear. "Please, tell, me, Sammy. I promise, it'll be ok." _I will make it ok._

"First, it was you - " Sam felt an almost imperceptible shake against his head, and amended, "I thought it was you. I thought it was real . . . You said it was my fault. Everything. That I was the destruction."

It was far worse, hearing those words again and knowing that Sam had thought they had come from him. Dean closed his eyes, absorbing every word, knowing he deserved every bit of pain they inflicted.

"And then, it was Jess, and she . . . she . . . I was a demon. And she knew. And she . . ." _Jess with the holy water, burning him, exorcising him . . . _

Dean felt Sam shivering and moved his arms more firmly around his brother, trying to lend him warmth.

"And then it was . . . it was . . ." Sam couldn't continue.

"Was what, Sammy?"

There was a long pause before Sam found the strength to speak again. "It was Mom."

Dean bit back a groan, telling himself he should have expected it, should have known there was a lower level to whatever hell his brother had suffered through.

"She was on the ceiling and Dad was there and they knew – they both knew – and I couldn't tell her why. I couldn't tell her why I'd killed her and Dad said he should've – and then she was burning, we were burning . . ."

Dean felt Sam's tears scald his skin, branding him. If he lived to be an old man, he would never forget the feeling of his brother's tears, and the knowledge that he was their source. That he was to blame. He felt his own slide down his cheeks and he ducked his head, burying it in his brother's hair. _I'm sorry, Sam, I'm so sorry._

"And then I thought I was awake and you were here, and I knew I had to end it, that it was my fault, that I was the destruc-"

"No, Sam!" He couldn't bear to hear his brother repeat those words, those awful words. "It was not your fault. It wasn't. It was mine. I did this."

Dean rarely apologized, and even more infrequently was sincere in it. He had never meant the words more than at this moment. "I am so sorry, Sam. I thought I was helping. You hadn't slept in so long, and I thought," – _I knew what was best for you_ – "I thought it would help. Those pills you took were sleeping pills. The ones I gave you. It was my fault, Sam. Mine. "

Now that the words were out, Dean braced himself for the consequences. He kept his hold on Sam, not certain what his brother's reaction would be, but certain it wouldn't be good. How could it be? If their positions were reversed . . .but they weren't. This was about Sam.

"You – you drugged me?"

Dean winced at Sam's incredulity. He could hear the thoughts that undercut Sam's question. _I trusted you, and this is what you did? My own brother?_

"You _drugged_ me?" Sam was pulling against him now. "Let me go, Dean! Let go of me!"

Dean released him and Sam flung himself away, chest heaving, back braced against the bed.

Dean wouldn't let himself look away, accepting the censure in his brother's eyes. He had never seen Sam look so stricken, so defeated. Dean would have preferred an injury, however severe, to the naked betrayal directed at him now.

"I can't believe this." Sam ran a hand through his hair, looking dazed. He couldn't understand what was happening. Dean had – how could Dean have done this? How could he? "I couldn't wake up. I couldn't wake up . . ."

All at once, Sam broke. Sobs curved his spine, forced his chin to his chest. His hands came over his head, drawing him into an impossibly small ball as grief consumed him.

Dean sat, paralyzed with guilt. He wanted to reach out to Sam, to console him, but it didn't take a college education for him to know he was the last thing Sam wanted right now. That he might be the last thing Sam would _ever _want. Dean seldom thought in terms of forgiveness – for others or himself – and it was more than a little unnerving to realize he could lose Sam over this.

_He could leave_. Dean felt a coldness creep over him. Regardless of his intentions, his actions had all but destroyed his brother. _He could leave. And there's nothing I could do to stop him._

Sam slowly quieted, visibly struggling to piece himself back together. Deep, shuddering breaths shook him, each one a nail driven into Dean's heart. Sam raised his head, fingers pressing his temples as he stared blankly ahead. Dean could almost hear Sam's mind working, but he couldn't tell what Sam was thinking, how this would all play out.

_It's been waiting for you your whole life . . . You're what I've been hunting . . .We could've saved so much time . . . You killed us all . . .You know what you have to do . . . _The echoes of the dreams rolled over Sam, voices overlapping in his brain. He had awakened and the dreams were over, and yet . . . and yet . . . it wasn't that simple. His dreams _meant _something now. No longer random memories or figments of his imagination, but portents of the darkest kind, filled with truths_. Truth. What is the truth?_

The echoes answered for him: _you are the destruction._

Sam dug his fingers deeper into the soft hollows of his temples. Gray spots danced in his vision, but he maintained the pressure, needing something to distract him from his spiraling thoughts.

But there was no way to escape them. No matter how they had come about, Sam knew the dreams had to be true. He was responsible. _Jess . . . Mom . . ._ The knowledge was devastating. And what was worse was that Sam knew it wouldn't end there. _You are. You ARE. Present tense. More to come. No escape. _He didn't know what to do.

_Not true_. Suddenly, Sam's vision came back into focus.

There was one thing he could do. He could protect Dean. He could figure out what had happened, how it had happened, maybe even why. And protect Dean. There would not be another death on Sam's head. He wouldn't allow it. No matter what it took, no matter what sacrifice was required, Dean would be safe. _Safe from me._ It was the only comfort Sam had. This wasn't the time. But when the time came, when Sam was sure it would really be over, he would end it, one way or another. _To save Dean. _

Doing nothing came as easily to Dean as apologies did, but he waited. At any minute, his brother could start packing or simply walk out the door and out of Dean's life. He didn't know what else to say, except that he was sorry, sorrier than he had even known it was possible to be. This wasn't a moment that could be dispelled with sarcasm or brotherly banter. This was the meat and bones of them, their core and foundation, and their fate was in Sam's hands.

"Why?"

Dean sighed, feeling suddenly old and tired. "You hadn't slept in four days, Sam. I didn't know what else to do, how else to help you."

"I told you I never wanted to take them." Not an accusation; just a statement of fact.

Dean nodded, his eyes bright. He managed to keep his voice from cracking. "I didn't know what else to do."

Silence stretched between them again, neither noticing as the shadows on the wall lengthened and thinned. Dean felt like he was suffocating, and Sam was only one who could give him air. He couldn't let himself think beyond this moment, knowing that, if Sam left this time, everything that made Dean's life worth living would go, too. There would be no recovery.

_Say, something, Sam. Say something. Please, say – _

"Never again." Sam was finally looking at him, a blur of emotions playing over his face so quickly that Dean couldn't get a read on them.

"Never." _Like you even had to ask. _

Sam seemed to be searching for something in Dean's eyes, and Dean could only pray he'd find it.

Sam dropped his head back to his hands and drew a deep breath. When he looked at Dean again, some of the tension was gone, and Dean breathed again, too.

"I think I sprained this." Sam held out his arm, which was swollen from fingertips to elbow. There were bruises on his wrist, the shape of a hand, but neither brother chose to comment on them.

"I'll get the kit."

Sam didn't move while Dean gathered their first aid supplies. As Dean pulled ace bandages and a few clips from the medical bag, his hands brushed against the prescription vial he had used the night before. Sam didn't react to the sound of the pills rattling in the plastic container, but Dean knew he had heard them. He walked into the bathroom, dumping them into the toilet and flushing with one smooth movement. The container was thrown into the trash can, banging against the tin as it fell. _Never again._

Sam held his wrist out, stoic as Dean wrapped it carefully.

"Do you want a sling?" Dean wouldn't even ask if Sam wanted pain relievers. He would not be offering his brother pills again, not of any kind.

"Maybe later."

Dean threw the leftover supplies back in the bag and settled next to his brother. Sam looked drained and soul-weary. Dean just wanted to be near enough for Sam to feel him, to know he was there if Sam wanted him. He had no other penance to offer.

Sam cocked his head, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye, an almost-smile struggling at his lips. "Hey – at least my head doesn't hurt anymore." He tried to hold the smile for Dean's sake, but the effort was just too much, and tears overtook him again.

This time, there was no resistance when Dean pulled Sam close, draping his arms around him. He tucked his brother's head against his chest, absorbing his pain, holding him up, and losing the battle to hold his own tears back.

"I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry." He wondered if he could ever say the words enough.

"I know."

Sam squeezed with his good arm, and even though Dean had nothing to compare it to, he felt the forgiveness in his brother's grasp. There was a long road ahead, but he'd make sure Sam knew, _would always know_, that he had earned it.

Sam held his brother as tightly as he could, overwhelmed with a knowledge he hadn't asked for but couldn't avoid. _I'll keep you safe, Dean. And I'll end it, when the time comes. I swear, I will. I'm so sorry._


End file.
